Mr. J.V. Presogna
Presogna Productions

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Along An Unordinary Way
Along An Unordinary Way
Poetry in Images
Mr. J.V. Presogna
59 poems with 20 images
E-Book Available

Poetry Page

Mr. J.V. Presogna
I write all kinds of poetry, but
the only kinds of poetry to be found here
on this page are sonnets.

The Sonnet

There are primarily two forms of "classical" sonnets, but I admit there are more forms than two. In this episode of sonnet writing, I am including the "Shakespearian Sonnet Form" and the "Italian Sonnet Form," both of which are defined by the rhyme scheme.

We all know that a sonnet is three quatrains and a couplet, but of course those rhymes are not always so easy.

One of the main difficulties of writing poetry is to adhere to form and structure, as opposed to the rather easy tradition of free verse. Even those who like free verse agree that some folks do not even write it as poetry, but rather just prose in fancy stanzas. Prose in fancy stanzas is not poetry. Even free verse has rhythm.

Therefore, I have included six sonnets here, of which five are of the Shakespearian nature and one of the Italian nature.

I hope you enjoy them, for I love to recite them.



The law is ancient as each dawn is new;
All is fair to survive a killing.
Those deemed mighty are but a few;
Those who are weak find warm blood spilling.
'Tis fear in the heart and wandering eye
Which causes in some such violent reaction;
Battles are fought so that one must die,
While another's belly receives satisfaction.
Little remains for scavengers waiting,
Although little is all they need;
A carcass as meal can also be baiting,
An eater today provides tomorrow's feed.
Losers fill the bellies of victors each day;
Victors are only victors until they are prey.

By J.V. Presogna
© 1988
Shakespearian Sonnet Form


For the love of a laugh he labors long,
Sometimes on through the night until morning;
While others are content to just sing a song,
The comic relentlessly pursues his scorning.
A joke, a poke, a jab, a stab;
Such is the match for a comic's boxing;
A dare, a stare, a dance, a glance;
He anticipates quickly a chance at outfoxing.
The audience laughs as if it's expected,
The sign of a comic well-seasoned and clear;
Commonly laughter is not so respected,
But the comic's profession defies reason and fear.
He measures his night counting punch lines that hit;
He measures his morning counting jokes to omit.

By J.V. Presogna
© 1988
Shakespearian Sonnet Form


She shuns biography as boring text;
Leave it to historians who do it best;
Innuendo to rumor annexed;
Keep the gossip, throw out the rest.
She need not document or verify;
There's no respect for facts;
Her subject she must terrify;
Gaping mouths, and moral attacks.
The subject isn't analyzed;
There's more fun in speculation;
The author isn't civilized;
She just attacks a reputation.
Scandal, scandal, shout out loud;
Kiss and tell and be not proud.

By J.V. Presogna
© 1988
Shakespearian Sonnet Form


Podium promises purely political,
Flowing eloquently daily en masse;
Richly dressed, but purely rhetorical,
It comes with a choice of the party's sauce.
Visions of future societies made,
Predictions of abundant prosperity;
Statistics are quoted in serenade,
To convince us all of sincerity.
Reaching and grabbing for ready ears,
Parading through crowds automatically;
Always prepared to accept a few cheers,
And waving their arms enthusiastically.
How many times can we hear this speech?
How many promises will this one breach?

By J.V. Presogna
© 1988
Shakespearian Sonnet Form


Days of leisure come not often,
When hours clocked are clocked for one;
Pray the sunset day's light soften,
An evening's rest for man and sun.
Each morning's call on nightly slumber
Pursues a labor left undone;
If only days would come without number,
All deadlines one could surely shun.
But labor's worth cannot be measured
By counting days along the way;
The value grows and is thus treasured,
When labor's end is yesterday.
No greater joy can one achieve,
When one's own hands an end do weave.

By J.V. Presogna
© 1988
Shakespearian Sonnet Form


Upon a clear and starry night,
When gods upon the ruins gaze,
Such noble memories we do praise,
When Rome was Rome and Rome was right.
When all the world was Rome's delight,
Each poet's pen set words ablaze;
Each artist's brush one's eyes could daze;
When Rome was Rome and Rome was might.
But Rome could not survive such lust,
Nor passions in a stadium's lot;
Where eager men would die for glory;
The noble men were turned to dust.
Ideals and souls were left to rot;
Invading Vandals told the story.

By J.V. Presogna
© 1988
Italian Sonnet Form

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